Stories of Will and Lyra
by Candy Cane Jones
Summary: Chapter by chapter glimpses into what happens to our heroes in the aftermath of the books.
1. Will

**Welcome to the story! There's a lot to be explained at the end, where the next Author's Note is.**

Will woke up, sweating bullets and gazing around the darkening room. Dappled grey light peppered the walls from the streetlamps outside, and shadows roamed along as cars chugged down the road. _Shadows_. _Not Shadows, shadows. Not Lyra_.

He rolled on his side and cast a look over his shoulder at Maritza. She was asleep next to him, and yet he felt nothing more than a generous friendliness for her. His chest was bare and she was wearing little as well, but in the dark bedroom Will nonetheless did not really want any part of Maritza touching him any longer. He turned back to the window.

Memories raced in his mind. It was such a slideshow. He was on holiday from the university, and summer was just begun. With a good deal of help from Mary Malone, Will had managed to gain entrance into Oxford itself as a student. While it wasn't a secret to Mary, Will tried to as hard as he could to play off his burning need to finish his studies at Oxford casually. Both he and Kirjava knew that he wanted to be there only so that in some way, he could be closer to Lyra. Midsummer was a month off yet.

More memories filtered. Maritza, that happy girl with the white teeth and thick brown hair from his physics course. She was nice, and she was a good friend, and she was pretty. Will also saw a flicker of someone, maybe Serafina Pekkala or Mrs. Coulter herself, in Maritza. The similarity between the names Maritza and Marisa lay untouched by Will.

She was always so good to him. On some occasions, Maritza would invite Will to study alone in the library or eat dinner at some café. Will would do so, and they were still only friends. Maritza made him laugh. It was that laugh that finally convinced him—after his first full year at Oxford—that it would be no betrayal to Lyra if he finally accepted the invitation Maritza had given him when they had strode through the streets together.

Now he lay here on the damp sheets, feeling nothing, thinking only in his head about Lyra and Pantalaimon and his all friends from the other world. Why was it that whenever he even thought about getting close to a girl, all he could think about was Lyra? It wasn't a guilty feeling and it didn't make him mad at himself, but right now he didn't _feel_ like dealing with Maritza or anyone else. He didn't even want to deal with himself. Will dozed in and out of a colorful sleep, filled with flaming bitumen torches and bright dragonflies and little red fruits.

He fully awoke next when the morning sun was high. He still had not enough sleep, really, but Maritza was awake next to him. Her slender hands plucked at his shoulder and slowly, but not regretfully, he rolled over.

"Hi," she smiled quietly.

"Hi."

"Had a nice sleep?"

Will paused. He figured some flirtation should be forthcoming, some acknowledgement and praise of what they had done the night before, but he couldn't bring it to his lips.

"Yes."

Maritza giggled.

"The strong, silent type."

_Not with Lyra_, thought Will, and the thought stung him. Why, oh why, did he have to do this now? He had to put her from his head for at least a moment.

Maritza's smile faded and she looked up seriously at him.

"Will, do you like me?"

"Of course," Will answered truthfully. Maritza was a good friend.

"Who is the other girl?" she asked softly, averting her eyes so that he could only see the top of her brown head.

"What?"

"Who is she?"

"Who?"

"The girl you're so devoted to, Will. The girl you're in love with and the girl that broke your heart."

A powerful feeling gripped his chest and Will wrested with it like a lion. His mouth was dry. Bravely, however, Maritza plunged on before he had to reply.

"I know you," she said, mainly to his broad chest. "I've met your mother and your Aunt Mary. I've seen you struggle to answer a difficult question during an examination and I've seen you smile when you're not really here or there. You're somewhere else so much of the time, Will, and I know that no one knows where you go. Not me nor Kelly nor Johnny nor Chris or any of your other friends. I thought that maybe you were just shy sometimes, but now I'm sure. You're in love with someone."

Gently, despite the stinging that accompanied the names of some of his best friends in this world, Will lifted up Maritza's chin to gaze calmly into her placid hazel eyes. He planted a light kiss on her lips. She wasn't crying and Will hadn't expected her to.

"I'm here now, Maritza. Just here. There are just some things that I can't explain. I'm not in trouble or anything stupid like that. And I really do like you, but—"

"Not in this way," she said firmly, making only the slightest gesture to the bedroom setting around them.

Will nodded and Maritza took a deep, cleansing breath. She'd have all these feelings to sort out when she returned home, but for now, Will was just being Will and she loved him for it anyway. She was a bright girl, though. Will Parry was the most considerate, enigmatic, and formidable person she had ever known, and spending time with him—any time at all—made her think that the world was a little safer as long as he was around.

"So who is she, then?" was all that Maritza said.

Will blinked and smiled, finally.

"I'm not gonna tell you."

"Wi-ill…"

"Marit—zaaa…"

She pinched him lightly, knowing it wouldn't hurt him a bit. He laughed and rolled away, climbing out of bed in only his boxers.

"I'm going to make us waffles, now, Maritza, so you can stay here if you'd like but if it's breakfast you want, then you'd better get up."

"You'll just reheat frozen waffles your mother made," accused Maritza grudgingly. Will shrugged. She didn't need to know he could cook waffles and freeze them himself. And with his mother and Mary on a holiday, no one would be around to make Maritza the wiser.

A pillow hit him in the head and he chuckled again, tossing it back.

"I'll wake you when they're ready."

"Good," replied Maritza stuffily, her face sleepily pushed into the blankets.

Will opened the bedroom door and saw Kirjava in the hallway. Trying a calculated focus of his eyes, Will saw another dæmon near the kitchen. It was clever-faced badger with smiling eyes and knowledgeable stripes across its pointed head. Will grinned at Maritza's dæmon, whom he had not been able to pin down and see before now. The badger made a soft, growly noise of hello.

"You're wasting time," chided Kirjava. "Make the waffles."

"Impatient," muttered Will.

"What was that?" came Maritza's dreamy voice from his bed. Will stepped back into the room.

"I said—no, wait. That's wrong." Will took a deep breath. He didn't show nerves about many things, but he had never tried to explain himself to a girl before. "Maritza…there's no other girl. Not anymore. I can't forget her and it would be wrong to forget, but it's also wrong to think that I can wait around to see her again. I know when I'll see her, and it won't be for a while. I do love her though, even if I only have the memories now. I'm sorry if that bothers you."

"No," Maritza answered, suddenly perfectly clear and lucidly awake. "Thank you for telling me, Will. And I won't say anything to anyone else, if you want. About her, or...or about this."

Unconsciously, Will stuck out his jaw just a bit.

"I'm not ashamed," he said defiantly. "About her _or_ you. Especially not you. I'd never be ashamed of you, Maritza."

Maritza couldn't help the little smile that touched her lips.

"Good. Well…good. Just good. Now get your bum into the kitchen and fix the breakfast you promised."

…

"So, Kirjava," began Will later that evening. Maritza had left just as night touched the sleepy part of London where the Parrys and Dr. Malone currently lived. Will sat alone in front of the fireplace, wherein he had lit a blazing inferno. Kirjava's eyes were half-closed as she curled up on her rug close to the flames. "Did we do right? D'you think that we—I, d'you think that _I_ betrayed Lyra? I…I don't feel like we did…"

Kirjava flicked her tail and sat up.

"You promised her you'd move on if you had to," said Kirjava solemnly.

"That just it!" burst Will with savagery. "I haven't! I haven't moved on! I haven't forgotten Lyra for even a day, even an hour. I just…Maritza…I don't even think of her like I think of Lyra…I don't want to make her into Lyra…"

"Then you did right by Lyra," said Kirjava. "You're living your life, and you don't have anger or resentment or anything like that for Lyra because she couldn't be with us. You haven't replaced the good memories. We're just learning a new way to be, Will, that's all. We're learning how to be adults, and that's the best thing we can do."

"I know," mumbled Will. He felt very young. "I just wish—"

"I know." Kirjava laid down again, letting the flames lick over the colors of her fur. "I know. I wish I could see them too."

**Hello, hello. Let me just say that I have ever written any His Dark Materials fanfiction before, even though they are my second-favorite books. This just came to me, and there will be at least one more chapter for Lyra too. It is not just a one shot. Each chapter will be a little peek into Will and Lyra's lives at random points and events. I dunno how many there will be. Review, please, especially if you have any questions on the characters because I realize that there will need to be mucho OC in this story, and there's not much I can do about it even though I normally hate that kind of thing. Thanks!**


	2. Lyra

Lyra nervously adjusted the beads on her necklace.

"Pan, where on earth are those hair combs? They en't _anywhere_ around here!"

Her cultivated accent weakened in her frustration and colloquial Oxford leaked back in. Lyra stood in front of a mirror in her private apartment in Dame Hannah's college. As a senior student with a well-paid tuition, Lyra was afforded several comfortable—but small—rooms at the university. While the decorations were not quite of the slickly feminine design that Lyra recalled from her memories of her mother, there was an air of the sophistication that Lyra had picked up as a polished student. She still burned with desire whenever she saw a muddy claybed.

Pan bounded over with a small bag of costly silk. With a look of gratitude, Lyra shook out jeweled combs that had been coming-of-age gifts from the Master of Jordan College. She did not _really_ want to wear the formal things to the banquet tonight, but the Master would be there and she knew he didn't have very many banquets left in him.

The banquet was being held for the new full-time students, and Lyra was one of them. Her particular friend from the boarding school was a girl named Lizetta, who shared Lyra's rooms. The irony that Lyra was now living with a real "Lizzie" was lost on neither her nor Pantalaimon. Lizetta was from another part of Eastern Anglia and was gone on a holiday to see her family.

Lyra wished and wished that she might've gone too. Dutifully, Lyra had obeyed Dame Hannah and her other schoolmasters ever since the fateful twists of the war had brought delivered her into their care. Minor or major lapses aside, Lyra had not wavered from her studies even as she became frustrated beyond measure at the skill that she could no longer master over the alethiometer.

"You'd do better to only wear one jeweled comb, or they might think you're too high-bred for a student," advised Pantalaimon.

Finally, Lyra viewed herself in the mirror. She saw a young woman, barely beyond her teenage years, looking to fill out the skin of her new body and polish up the edges. Her hair was longer, and twisted with elegance and carelessness. It was the favorite cosmetic-themed trick that Lyra had learned.

Her dress was midnight blue, the color of the initiate, and Lyra's soft puckered lips and dazzling eyes made her enticing and supple, and powerful. She decided on pushing one silver comb into her hair and gave a puff of pleasure and anxiety.

"Ready now, Pan?"

She had brushed him shiny and sleek all afternoon long.

Lyra felt his assent. She threw open the door and locked it behind her, tipping the keys into her small blue handbag.

The banquet hall was full of quietly mingling guests, who sipped from liquor flutes offered by servants and whose swishing robes nimbly avoided their stolid dog dæmons.

Dame Hannah hailed Lyra almost immediately. She was seated off the dais in a comfortable armchair, facing a little mahogany coffee table and the wizened friend of Lyra's from her youth, the Master of Jordan College. His crow dæmon turned its black eyes on her.

He rose to greet her but Lyra stepped up quickly, noticing that he was now using a walking cane.

"Hello, Master," she said, kissing him with a daughterly gentleness on both cheeks. She helped him gain his seat again and took her own when Dame Hannah's servant retrieved another chair. These were the only guests seated in the naphtha light of the hall, for both Dame Hannah and the Master were white-headed and quivering with age.

"Lyra Silvertongue," said the Master simply. He didn't mention how she was all grown up, or how pretty and commanding she had become, or how her jaw still jutted slightly but in a different way than before. She offered him a gracious smile, nervously fingering Pantalaimon's fur.

A servant poured each of them a glass of Tokay, and Lyra received hers stiffly. Dame Hannah gave her a covert nod, the signal that it was perfectly acceptable for Lyra to accept the drink and sip, but Lyra looked to the Master. He smiled slightly, revealing a row of yellowing teeth.

"The Tokay is indeed a gift of the college," the Master said easily "No poison this time." His voice traveled over the words haltingly, slowly, raspy and ponderous with his great age. To show his good faith, the Master drank from his own goblet. Lyra followed.

Then a great many questions were asked and answered and the replies were all satisfactory. Yes, Lyra was doing wondrously in her alethiometer studies and certainly, the symbol books were reprinted only last year. No, no, it was unnecessary to offer payment; Lyra's scholarship more than paid for her expense. Of course, she didn't have a great use for embroidered ribbons and Nipponese earrings, thank heavens! No, thank you, no more Tokay. Was it dinner?

Lyra was pleased with herself when the first course came; she really was. Pan glanced warningly at her but she paid him no heed. The Master was surely impressed with how conversational and congenial she had become, and Lyra's academic accomplishments actually _were_ nothing short of wondrous. She spent at least an hour everyday pouring over the meanings written in the old books, marking meanings she might forget and penciling memory device next to the pictures. Her diligence was limitless.

But Lyra was not quite ready to admit that she was only practicing a newer, updated, and more grown-up version of lying. She was becoming imaginative and studious, yes. Lyra the lady was a far cry from Lyra the youngster, but she hadn't figured on quite how to put the two together yet. That was where she was still growing up, and in such a way that she didn't even realize.

"Dr. Broken Arrow!" whispered Dame Hannah delightedly. "He managed to attend dinner after all! Master, you surely _must_ know that Ruth, another of our girls, has studied under Dr. Broken Arrow for her thesis on Muscovy policies. Lyra, you must make introductions at dessert. Ruth wrote us to say that he was a charming mentor—"

For all of her cleverness, Dame Hannah was still apt to behave slightly like a schoolgirl when she prattled about her students. It had taken Lyra some time to realize that this was how Dame Hannah manipulated her college's power: indulging men's ideas of what female Scholars were, and using them to her advantage with simple bragging and gentle suggestions. It was another aspect of Dame Hannah that Lyra was forced to admire—the occasional sacrifice of her dignity for the advancement of her students—even if Lyra still had no mind herself to try out any of these games. It was unspeakable to say the least, but also true that Dame Hannah's mind wandered now and again due to her advanced years and some of the rambling certainly wasn't pre-conceived. Banquets of this sort with college business at hand were trying matters.

As the servants brought the cranberry goose onto the table, Lyra's anxiety reached a high point. She exchanged the barest hint of a glance with Pantalaimon and then rose, folding her napkin primly.

"Excuse me a moment," Lyra said politely (reciting words she had learned by rote). "I have something small to attend to. Forgive my departure."

Dame Hannah nodded vaguely, but the Master's eyes were quicker. Lyra's cloth napkin has been twisted and wrinkled by her clenching fingers. A nudge from his crow dæmon made him point his face towards the great bay window looking over the blackened blue sky.

Lyra hurried past the Porter (a thickish man with a brain far slower than Mr. Shuter's) and emerged onto the streets of Oxford wearing her academic finery. She chose her favorite bench in front of the college and paced restlessly in front. Pan flowed onto the seat with one graceful slither.

"We can't leave every banquet just to get fresh air," said Pan severely. Lyra spared him a disparaging glance.

"Don't you think I know that, Pan? I can't sit there, though, and in such an isolated seat of honor! Pah!"

"Many students would murder for the seat between the Master of Jordan and Dame Hannah," replied Pantalaimon stubbornly.

"Don't pretend you don't feel it, Pan. I'd love to talk to either of them, but you know those politicking Scholars. There's no way to get a solid honest word out of them at these functions until the chocolatl or coffee…"

"Not like you've ever stayed to try," mumbled Pan. He settled more firmly onto the bench though, and showed no inclination to go back inside.

Lyra turned her head upwards towards those shining stars and smiled. Formless grey fog drifted idly over the city and people rushing past looked only momentarily at the young woman with her face upturned towards the heavens.

"I think I'd like to take a journey, Pan…" said Lyra quietly. "I'd like to see the north again, or something…"

"I know," admitted Pan. "We don't belong in these buildings all the time, Lyra, as much as everyone tries so hard to make a space for us. But Xaphania…we can't just leave and wander our world…"

"It'd be empty, anyway!" said Lyra viciously. Not a day past without a memory of Will, not a single day.

"No, no. There are always friends, Lyra. Haven't we at least got them?"

"You're right," said Lyra, and she plunked down hard on the wooden slats of the bench. Pan slid into her lap and she wrapped her arms around her beloved dæmon. "We'll go back inside after only a minute, though. Won't we?"

"Yes," agreed Pantalaimon, gazing at the white moon too and undoubtedly thinking of John Faa and Kaisa and Kirjava just as Lyra's thoughts ran on similar lines. "Yes. Only a minute."

The Master watched through the bay window as Lyra—so full of promise and strength that had not been beaten from her by education and grooming—sat with her dæmon and dreamed. _She was not lost. She would be someone_. He cut slowly into his cranberry goose and smiled, his dæmon pecking at his small dish of cranberries with renewed vigor.

**Without more reviews, it will be slightly harder to continue. That's all I'm saying. And I finally read _Lyra's Oxford_ (highly recommended, of course).**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	3. Will Two

His calf stung him.

"Damn!" breathed the football captain viciously. "Those bloody bastards! And we've got to call the half short as well! Since the timetables changed—"

"When are we done, Mullroy?" asked Will softly, looking over the captain at the motley collection of red or burgundy shirts huddled on the other end of the football pitch.

Will knew his calf was bleeding.

The afternoon sky was dead-white blue and light rain drizzled softly on the footballers. The field was an open space on Oxford grounds, with lush, slick green grass that was combed down by the wind and which tore at their ankles and spikes.

Mullroy was a student in his last year, elected captain of the team by a vote at a pub one night. He had a pug-like, determined face and messy sandy brown hair, with a build on the shorter and stockier side.

"We've only got ten minutes, Parry."

"Ten minutes?" echoed another boy incredulously, tall and lean with wavy brown hair and a sharp nose.

Will's stocking clung to the sticky blood on his leg. He'd need to sew up the stocking when he got home.

"That's right, Enever," answered Mullroy in a very surly way. "Otherwise the entire Merton group is going to be late for their Foreign Lit class. It's not their business--it's the professor's—so we can't blame them. We'll just need to end early. '

Will gritted his teeth and stomped his leg viciously.

This was an informal match between some of the students from the different Oxford colleges. Rag-tag college bands would get together and get a football game going. The only rules were that the whole team had to show up wearing more or less the same color and that if someone made a truly despicable display of himself, he was kicked out. That was is. Will's team was grey today, and the fellows from Merton College happened to be red. Due to the odd circumstances, both teams had warily agreed on a rare huddle and time out. The score was a meager one to one.

Will didn't go out for the uni team because he didn't really want another distraction from his classes and he didn't want to play for England. Football was just a competitive way to fight without fighting, to battle without battling. This time, it seemed like Will would even have a real enemy.

Feeling every scratch on his leg, Will eyed the tallest figure in a wine-colored shirt across the grass. He was the captain of the Merton team and his name was Bailey. Will almost hated him. He was a dirty cheat and a bully, and because he was used to being taller than everyone he swaggered wherever he went

While another Merton student had raced to the field, huffing and puffing and waving around the new timetable, Will and Bailey had been locked in a scuffle over the ball. The play hadn't mattered once the news of the schedule conflict had arrived, but Bailey had deliberately aimed a kick at Will's leg after the whistle call. Had Will not moved reflexively, Bailey might have buckled his knee.

Then Bailey nonchalantly shoved him on his way to the Merton huddle. No one had seen and Will hadn't mentioned it. He had just turned slowly, and seen _that_ sort of smile spread over Bailey's wide face.

Ten to one the bruise on his calf would be the stinging sort.

"All right, Parry?" Bailey had said. They hadn't spoken before or since. Bailey was taller and tougher-looking, but Will _was_ tougher, and now the simmering fire of vindication bled in his veins. Bailey was going to lose and it was going to hurt him worse than he had hurt Will, or would hurt anyone on Will's team.

"…return the ball after a few seconds," Mullroy was saying. Will liked Mullroy. He liked him as a captain and as a friend. When the huddle had been called, Mullroy had summed up everything admirably.

"They've got to leave early to get to class. Let's make sure the lot of them have sore, losing arses to show for it."

Will knew his team wouldn't lose this time. A small part of him chuckled at how his world had such few uses for warriors, except for sports circumstances and miracles.

"So, Parry," Mullroy said, looking up to meet Will's eyes. "You'll take the ball with Enever and Hawkins and move it upfield."

Will was naturally very athletic, with a broad and thick shape and height. He was fast but not the fastest, yet the same element that had commended him to Lord Faa was the sort of element that made him seem totally in control on the pitch. Which he was. Unsurprisingly, Will could be highly competitive and he was flat-out dangerous if the other team wasn't playing fair.

"What about me?" demanded a pale boy with a straight nose and prominent cheekbones. "Do I go up as well?"

"Since you were on the piss last night, Elmore, and you can hardly run in a proper line, I'd think no," answered Mullroy severely. Several people laughed. Brian Elmore shook his head, but smiled anyway. Will didn't. He was too busy dealing with the adrenaline that made him want to run and kick and run again.

Kirjava hissed loudly from her spot under the tree on the side of the field. She felt his anger. Anyone who bullied and lied just because he was stronger aroused a certain reminiscent distaste in Will. Bailey hardly held a candle to the Authority, but Will would beat him just the same.

Mullroy was asking him a question. Will blinked.

"Huh?"

"Parry, I asked can you do this?"

"Yes."

"Good. And America's coming up with you three just for laughs."

"Bloody hell," quipped America, which was the nickname of a short, dark student named Rick Kovatz who had moved to Oxford from the United States. Will did laugh at that because he liked the wiry fellow with a strangely intense stare.

"That's enough, America," grinned Mullroy. All of the boys got a kick out of America's tries at British slang. "Let's just finish with them and go to the pub after."

_Everyone_ cheered at that.

The teams spread out. Will led the formation, not looking right nor left nor behind. Only forwards, focusing on Bailey. The enemy.

The ball came alive. Left, right, left, Will quickly sped upfield with it.. A lesser member of the Merton team blocked him half way, but Will wasn't interested in him. Will passed to Hawkins and brushed past the offending obstacle.

Hawkins was fast, and his feet wove the slender grass heads delicately when he flew by the other players. A Merton player managed to trip him. America intercepted.

Most football matches contain passionate periods like this one, and the minutes steadily ticked down. Bailey's smug smirk had twisted into a look of concentration. Whenever Will wasn't with the ball, he was shadowing Bailey like a lost dæmon. When Bailey's boot kicked, it tapped Will's shoe. When he charged over the field, their elbows bashed together. Several times, Bailey swore and tried to turn around him. Will's face was hard, his head blaring for that crucial final moment.

It came. America had the ball and Will was a few minutes in catching up. America neared the Merton goal. He would score. Bailey ran close, very close. Straight on, in fact. His brutal form dwarfed Will's teammate's. Will heard Mullroy shouting, but the blood sang in his ears and prevented him from distinguishing the words. Bailey would bulldoze America, crushing him with his weight, just because he could.

Will's feet pounded the grass while he ran. A hazy image of a war-scarred battlefield and a grove full of Spectres settled haphazardly over Will's vision of the cool afternoon.

Bailey's leer of self-justification hung over America. The smaller player realized his danger, but there was nowhere to go unless he gave up the ball. Bailey was inches from a punishing tackle.

_Ba-BAM!_ The tackle was Will's. Will propelled himself into Bailey with all his speed. The force Will carried crashed Bailey from the side, throwing them both in a fearsome collision. They fell, writhing furiously, to the ground. The body of the bigger boy crunched treacherously onto the earth under Will's hard muscle.

Will was up in a second, wiping his face finally with his shirt sleeve. He surveyed the field satisfyingly. The players had hardly noticed his tackle because America had scored and the match was over. Merton had lost.

Dazed, Bailey lay in a sickening arrangement of limbs. Will grabbed his arm and roughly hauled him to his feet. Bailey's eyes were still fuzzy, but a dull flush of anger was reassembling his features.

"If I find out about you cheating some more, I'll come after you," whispered Will seriously, "even if it's just a dirty kick in the leg. I know what you would have done to him, and don't you dare try it again."

He let go of Bailey with somewhat of a toss. The bruiser picked himself up and stared down at Will. The eyes beneath the straight black brows were unyielding. Bailey blinked first. When the Merton crowd left, Mullroy told them that the only permissible way to celebrate this victory was a trip to the pub.

That night, at a fairly well-to-do place called Briner's, America sat next to Will with a classic serious expression.

"Parry, I've got to thank you."

Will looked at him thoughtfully.

"For what?"

"For tackling Bailey. I know you didn't trip over him, and I know what he would have done to me. Thanks."

Will nodded.

"You're welcome."

America watched Will with a keen eye, noting his scarred left hand toying with his chips. There was something about Will Parry that just wasn't what one expected to find. All the boys said it. Somehow, Will Parry wasn't the person America had expected to find here, but there was a passion in him that was strong and true. Very few people their age had as much dignity as Will.

Startled, America glanced around his legs. He looked back at Will, who simply sipped his glass with a bland expression. America could have sworn that for just a minute, the tip of his knee had tingled with the brush of a fire-colored cat's tail. Now what could that have been?

**Hey, readers, thank you for having been so good to me. I've taken awhile—as I know—but I'm a senior now and it's hard work in the Republic of Heaven :) You should feel happy at least because my Harry Potter story still hasn't been updated.**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


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